


Baby Blue

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Cock Cages, Facials, Feathers & Featherplay, Holy Trainer, Kinbaku, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rope Bondage, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 22:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4075990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel pads over to him on socked feet when he finally sits on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees, his boyfriend looking him over before cupping his chin, tilting his face up to meet his eyes. Dean knows that look, too—<i>Listen and answer what I ask you.</i> “You still trust me, right?” Castiel asks, his voice soothing, it and everything in the room working to calm Dean. He nods—he’s trusted Castiel for a long while, since they started fucking two months before, when Castiel had them lay it all out on the table.</p><p>Literally, the table—he’s never seen Sam look so horrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby Blue

In the few months after Castiel starts living with them—full time, now, completely of his own volition and Dean’s poorly-veiled enthusiasm—Dean realizes his obsession with online shopping may be spiraling out of control. It was fine at first: a few things for the kitchen, a giant box from Wayfair with God knew what inside, a spice rack that Dean secretly loves but refuses to let Sam badger him over—but now it’s different. The postal service in Lebanon must have a running bet on how many packages they’ll deliver this month. Seven boxes were left at their front door in June, and another ten in July—it’s going on late August and the tally is already at six.

Dean doesn't even know what most of these things _are_. Half of the time they’re labeled with the shipment company and place or origin, most passing through Kentucky at some point. Others are more discreetly packaged with only the origin address and Castiel Winchester’s name on the front.

 _Winchester_ —Dean still can’t get over that, that Castiel would willingly take on their name, assimilating into the hunter lifestyle at their side, completely human and vulnerable. He even travels with them on hunts when he can, when he and Sam aren’t researching some new monster out of Hayes or he isn’t nursing some sort of major wound. He’ll have more scars before he knows it, Dean muses; no one’s a full-fledged hunter until they have something to prove their worth.

Which probably also explains why there’s still a massive box of medical supplies in the library waiting to be sorted—admittedly, that’s one of his better purchases.

Right now, Dean’s holding a nondescript brown box with no return name, just a sticker slapped across the front and taped clear around the edges. He knows better than to look inside—anything unmarked is automatically grounds for no questions asked. And really, Dean knows better. He’s done his fair share of skeevy purchasing in the past when he was settled long enough, when there weren’t many shops around and dad was off for however long. And especially after Sam left for Stanford, leaving him with nothing to do all day but screw around town on his own or fuck himself senseless on his latest equipment.

He understands, really. If Castiel wants to order freaky sex toys, that’s fine by him; he should have _asked_ if Dean wanted to join in, at least. That doesn't stop his heart from racing when he walks the package from the front door and back down the main staircase, knocking on Castiel’s door. _Really_ , it would be a _shame_ if Castiel were more occupied with other things than acknowledging that Dean was just outside listening in on him, instead of inviting Dean in to play. A _total_ shame. His fantasy collapses when Castiel tells him to come in, looking completely innocent when Dean enters, reading atop his comforter with a pair of loose-fitting frames hanging from his nose. It shouldn't make Dean flush like he does.

“Swear, one day I’m gonna find a helicopter out on the lawn,” he says, handing off the box and watching a flash of recognition flit across Castiel’s face. “When we gave you a card, I didn’t think you’d buy us outta house and home.”

“Majority of everything I buy is out of necessity, Dean,” Castiel scoffs, walking the package over to his desk table and pulling a box cutter out from one of the shelves. He probably wants Dean to leave now; he hasn’t said anything expressly mentioning him staying, at least. “There are only a few things I’ve gotten for myself. Speaking of, close the door.”

“I’ll—get out of your hair then.” Dean makes to leave the room, his hand on the doorknob when Castiel stops him with one finger raised, crooking it towards him. He knows that look, knows it all too well. Castiel’s version of _sit down and shut up_. Instinctively, he follows the order and locks it behind him, figuring Sam doesn't need to hear this conversation anyway, if he’s even still home. He was supposed to have left for Hastings thirty minutes ago.

Castiel pads over to him on socked feet when he finally sits on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees, his boyfriend looking him over before cupping his chin, tilting his face up to meet his eyes. Dean knows that look, too— _Listen and answer what I ask you_. “You still trust me, right?” Castiel asks, his voice soothing, it and everything in the room working to calm Dean. Dimmed lights, the insane amount of candles burning on their pedestals around the room, some scratchy jazz record playing in the corner, sound turned down low. Dean nods—he’s trusted Castiel for a long while, since they started fucking two months before, when Castiel had them lay it all out on the table.

Literally, the table—he’s never seen Sam look so horrified.

“I need you to say it, Dean,” Castiel continues, stroking his fingers along the underside of his chin, down his adam’s apple to his collarbone, tracing the bare skin there, his shirt hanging low across his chest. It’s an old night shirt, cotton and still too large despite the numerous washes over the years. It’s comfortable; Dean’s calm when he wears it, and Castiel knows. Castiel always knows.

Dean makes to nod again, then thinks better of himself for it. Instead, he clears his throat and answers, “Yeah, Cas,” and earns a peck to his lips for his troubles.

“Good,” Castiel says, and relief washes over Dean at the simplicity of the word. “There’s… something I wanted to discuss with you, if you’re willing. I was waiting for the right time to ask, since you had me tie to you to the bedposts last month.” Ah, right—the rope burn hadn’t gone down for three days after that. But then again, he also hadn’t ever come that hard before in his _life_. He can deal with Sam side-eyeing him if he gets to feel _that_ again.

“What d’you got in mind?” Castiel turns to face the desk and takes the box cutter in hand again, slicing open the tape on the edges and forcing the panels open. “Startin’ to think you wanna leave me outta the party here. You been buyin’ toys without me?”

“Occasionally,” Castiel confirms. Which, _rude_. What if he wanted to try them out too? Stupid stingy boyfriend. “Your brother’s around too often, and I’m afraid sound carries here. I haven’t gotten to try them fully yet.”

Dean rolls his eyes—of course he would be worried about getting caught, especially after the second incident in the greenhouse. Sam really needed to knock once in a while. “You know we can rent a room outta town if you _really_ wanna get your kink on,” Dean snarks, and Castiel nods, like he hadn’t thought about the possibility before. Oh, _that’ll_ be fun.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Castiel finally turns around from what he’s been unboxing and holds the object behind his back, ordering Dean to close his eyes. “I’d like to try something with you, if you’re willing. If you’re not, I’ll keep it for myself and I’ll be the one to use it.” He places it in Dean’s hand, curling his fist around it. “It wouldn't be for daily wear, not unless you wanted to.”

It looks…like a dick, from what he can tell. Baby blue in color and a few inches long, connected to a fairly substantial sized ring. Castiel has a set of keys in his other hand—he knows what this is, and immediately blanches. “…You wanna put me in a _cock cage_?” His dick gives a traitorous twitch, something sour curling in his gut. How is he supposed to _fit_ in this thing?

“Only when we scene.” Castiel sits at his side and Dean turns to face him, eyes locked on the tiny device and thumbing over the head, feeling over the three holes there. If Castiel wanted to _keep_ him in it, would he actually have to _piss_ out of there? “You’re not obligated to, but I figured we might try something… _different_.”

He pouts a bit, still failing to make eye contact. “I thought you liked tying me up, though?” Because Dean _loves_ it—loves when Castiel gets creative with the ties, leaving him vulnerable and exposed in either of their bedrooms, toying with him for hours until he’s finally allowed to come. And when he does, he can barely remember his own name afterwards.

“I do, Dean.” Castiel reaches over to stroke his cheek, kissing him long and full until they’re panting into each other’s mouths, Dean clutching the cage in his fist. “I do, but… I like the idea of you _submitting_ to me in more ways than just with rope.”

Dean taps the head again, furrowing his brow. Castiel wants to keep him soft when they fuck, or at least while he’s teasing him. He can get behind that, but as long as Castiel knows what he’s doing. They have a safe word set up already, and he’s only ever had to use it once, and that was only right after they first started and the idea of being bound up left him dry heaving even before it began. Castiel held him for an hour afterwards, reassuring him that he wasn't at fault, that the Mark still wasn't burnt into his soul. Because it always came back to that—and Castiel helped him down, helped him when he needed it the most, brought him back to his body in the only way he knew how.

“I—I want to, believe me,” Dean sighs between them, head hung low. “It’s just… I’m putting everything I got into this, into _us_ , alright? I trust you, I really do, but… You know what you’re doing, right?”

Castiel nods and takes his unoccupied hand in his own, pressing his lips to his palm in a chaste kiss, never breaking eye contact. “I know what I’m doing, Dean. And I won’t hurt you in any way. If you want out, all you have to do is say the word.”

He nods—he can do this. As long as no one’s home, he can do this. “Just… Let me get cleaned up first, alright?”

Another kiss, and Castiel lets him off the bed. “Meet me in the dungeon when you’re ready.”

Dean swallows. “Yes, sir.”

-+-+-+-+-+-

He takes his time in the shower, more to psych himself up than anything, washing the morning sweat from his body and making sure his dick is perfectly tidy for the proceedings. The whole hygiene thing isn’t new—but the thing that he’s putting his dick _in_ is. He doesn’t touch himself more than absolutely necessary per Castiel’s instructions, making sure to dry off completely before he leaves the shower room stark naked, padding through the bunker with not a brother in sight and winding through the corridors until he finds one of the storage rooms.

Once he’s hidden behind the doors to the dungeon, he finds Castiel lighting vanilla-and-sugar scented candles at every corner and on the desks, the faint light illuminating the mattress at the center of the room, two sets of rope hanging from the eye-hook on the ceiling. It’s intimidating, to say the least; it reminds him of a coven or something, like he’s about to be sacrificed at the altar. But the sight of Castiel there calms him, even more when they kiss, Castiel’s hands on his bare hips as he leads him over to the bed, helping him to lay back, Dean keeping his eyes to the ceiling.

“Relax, Dean,” Castiel whispers to him, and he does, allowing Castiel to spread his legs and kneel between, keeping his touches anything but sexual. He closes his eyes and wills his dick to _shut up_ , especially when he feel’s Castiel’s hand on his balls, the first press of the device’s ring mildly less arousing than normal. Castiel pulls them through until the ring sits at the base of Dean’s cock, working to fit the head of the cage, cold and wet with a light drizzling of lube, over his dick and securely locking it in place with one of the keys from his pocket.

It’s not as tight as he expected, just weird—like he _should_ be hard with Castiel touching him, but he can’t be. He leans up to look between his legs, the light-blue device sitting snug where his cock is, Castiel palming his thighs in soft caresses down to his hips and back up, leaving a light kiss at the head of his dick. “It’s cute,” Castiel says, and Dean falls back, a hand over his eyes.

“Don’t say my dick’s cute,” he whines, fighting the flush in his cheeks. Castiel kisses his hip in apology. “You couldn’t’ve gotten it in black?”

“The blue looked better,” Castiel states, taking a moment to fondle his balls, Dean spreading his thighs wider out of instinct. “You always talk about the color of my eyes. I figured it’s something you would enjoy.”

The thought of Castiel using it as a mark of _ownership_ has him gasping a short breath, a curl of arousal spiraling through him, his dick taking no interest in it. “This is so weird,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching down to touch himself, the warmth of his cock replaced with the coolness of the resin between his legs. “What’s this thing called, anyway?”

“It’s a Holy Trainer.” Of _course_ it is. “It looked more appealing than the other models I saw. Does it feel alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, breathy. He expected to feel _pain_ , like everything was cut off; instead, there’s minor pressure, fading as the minutes pass. “’S kinda weird, though.”

“It’ll feel like that until you get used to it,” Castiel adds. “Are you ready?”

They talked about this beforehand, what Castiel was planning to do to him—apparently, he’s still researching various sorts of rope ties, and he found something new that would ‘ _expose him_ ,’ as he so eloquently put it. Whatever that meant. Dean sits up without help and kneels on the mattress, thankful that Castiel put the forethought into this; his knees can’t take any more strain, not after last week when he spent most of the night digging out a grave in Tupelo while Sam and Castiel took watch. _You’re stronger_ , they said. _It’s only another foot_ , they said. Tell that to his arthritis.

Castiel starts with his hands for balance, taking one of the ropes and pulling it tight, looping the hemp around his wrists in a basic knot, simply to keep him upright. It’s not comfortable, but then again, this never is. But the strain of it eventually fades once Castiel coaxes him where he needs to be, his body reveling in whatever his boyfriend does to him until he’s ready to bring him back down, making sure the ache isn’t too much the day after. He likes that part the most, Castiel washing him down, telling him everything he needs to hear. He _wants_ to hear.

Next, he spreads Dean’s legs until the weight of his cock is pressed to the mattress and his thighs are touching his calves, Castiel working a second length of rope, this one three times as long, around his upper thighs and ankles, connecting them via a strand beneath his balls, pulling them up tight against his body. The remainder of the rope, he stretches back to the eyehook between his cheeks, leaving him in spread out and raw, his chest heaving from the new strain.

The hand to the small of his back calms him, Castiel stroking up his spine and resting at his shoulder. “Is anything too tight?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head. “Can I blindfold you?”

“Gimme a minute,” Dean says, and Castiel backs off with a kiss to his neck, walking across the room to gather up a blindfold and something else he can’t exactly see in the dark. He takes that time to center himself, breathing in deep and letting it out at the same speed, until his blood starts to slow and the fuzziness in his head returns. It’s always like this at the beginning—his nerves get the better of him until he can regain control, tell his body that he’s _not_ being attacked right now. That he’s in the company of the man he loves, the man who wouldn't hurt him even if he begged. He’s safe here—Castiel will take care of him.

He gives Castiel the go ahead and closes his eyes, feeling the silk of the blindfold slip around his head, deft hands tying the knot and leaving him there, supported only by the ropes attached to the ceiling. If it were any other time, his cock would have been straining upwards and leaking, Castiel toying with him and taunting him with words that made him whimper on a good day, _beg_ on an even better one. Now, it sits soft and relaxed between his legs, blood flow slowed, arousal kept at a bare minimum. His body feels it more than his cock, the anticipation thrumming through his veins just from hearing Castiel walk around the room, bare feet slapping the tile and coming to a rest after every few steps. He’s looking, admiring; Dean flushes under the attention.

His head jerks up at the first touch to his back, something soft and cool trailing up his spine and back down again, slipping between his cheeks and just _barely_ skirting his rim. It feels like a crop, or a feather—something stupidly gentle that rips a moan from his throat and his hole clenching around nothing. He wants—wants to feel hands on him, a tongue licking him open, like Castiel always does when they’re like this. Instead, he’s left with a hollow feeling in his gut when the item pulls away, the coolness of the air conditioning his only company.

There’s walking again, movement. He struggles to follow it, huffing out sighs as he waits for the next touch, the next press of anything to his quickly overheating skin. He can’t take it, not seeing Castiel, the fear of abandonment creeping in until he hears footsteps again, always close. Always at the edge of the mattress. Sometimes he sits and runs what _has_ to be a feather over his face, chest, teasing his nipples to hardness, only to pull away just when he really starts to feel it. It leaves him gasping at the loss, straining to feel it again, follow Castiel and get what he desires.

“You’re beautiful,” he hears what has to be minutes after the sixth touch, warm breath whispered into his ear. A wet finger slips between his cheeks and strokes over his hole, Castiel’s mouth sucking warm at his neck, his earlobe, moaning little words of praise as he slides his finger in and out, Dean whimpering when it grazes his prostate. His cock aches to fill, the device keeping him soft against his will, still valiantly attempting to leak.

“You should see how you look, Dean. You’re flushed from your neck to your chest.” The feather returns, and Dean sucks in a sharp breath when it slides over his nipple, already erect and too sensitive, the end twirling over the hard nub. “I can see every one of your freckles. I could count them for hours—I could do _this_ for hours.” This time, he gasps when Castiel fingers his prostate with intent, cock leaking a few small drops of cum through the slit in the cage. “I could photograph you—.”

“No pictures.” Castiel murmurs something of an affirmation and kisses his cheek—Dean can’t stand the thought of looking at himself like this, so exposed and open. Castiel may be calming his insecurities one by one, but that’s one thing he’ll never be able to accept. That he’s worthy of being looked at like that, like he’s _loved_. Like he’s _beautiful_.

“No pictures, then,” Castiel confirms, and pulls his finger free. Dean chases it once it’s gone, almost begging for something to fill him up again. Still, he keeps quiet. Castiel doesn't like him to talk; he’s allowed to make as much noise as he likes, but unless he’s asked, he doesn’t speak. “What would you like today?”

“Want,” he starts, sucking in air when Castiel’s mouth wraps around his nipple, laving the nub with wet attention; he arches into it, unashamed of how good it makes him feel. He wants it—wants _more_. “Want you to come on my face,” he says, breathless. “Wanna—Wanna come, wanna get hard—.”

“I’ll let you get hard when I’m ready.” A thrill runs down his spine at that, and he looks up to where he knows Castiel is now standing, the warmth of his crotch an inch from his face. He nuzzles forward, mouthing over the bulge in his sweatpants and leaving a wet patch where he knows his cock is, warm and hard between his lips. Castiel tugs at his hair once he’s had his fill and pulls Dean’s head back, his other hand pulling his sweatpants down enough to free his cock, the head pressed to Dean’s lips. He can taste the precum there and laps at it, Castiel slapping it against his tongue between jacks of his fist, more spurting out into his mouth.

He’s probably a sight to see, he knows—red lipped and eager, body writhing for something to get him off, to get the cage off of him, to let him _come_. That would explain the noises Castiel is making, the curses falling from his lips as he fists himself, Dean occasionally sucking at his head when he can reach. Castiel never punishes him for it, never scolds him; every few strokes, he pushes a bit deeper into Dean’s mouth until he can suck him freely, bobbing his head until Castiel pulls back, stroking himself with precum and spit. If only Dean could touch him, slide a hand up his chest and tweak a nipple, grab his hip and beg Castiel to fuck his mouth.

He listens to Castiel and follows orders instead, letting him fuck his mouth briefly until he gets close, pulling back to jack himself. Dean lets himself be used like that, Castiel repeating the process until he’s moaning Dean’s name in a clipped rhythm, breath irregular and shaky, and all at once he feels Castiel come against his cheek, stray drops painting the blindfold and his lips; he swallows what he can, taking Castiel’s warm cock back into his mouth and sucking the last of his release from him, keeping him there until he softens, spent.

It’s only then that Castiel pulls the blindfold off, leaning down with his dick neatly tucked away to unlock the cage, carefully pulling it off and releasing Dean’s soft cock, now rapidly attempting to harden. His hips buck wildly once it’s full, Castiel at his back, two lubed fingers now pushing against his rim and shoving in, stroking his prostate in full. Dean howls and belatedly he hopes the room is soundproof, hopes no one’s decided to come home and hear him as he quickly approaches climax, hands straining in the ropes that bind him, hips desperately fucking back onto Castiel’s hand.

“So fucking good for me, Dean,” Castiel rumbles, three fingers fucking in and out with intent, Dean panting wildly in return. “So good, so beautiful—you can come now, _come_.”

He does—not with a shout, but with a low moan, feeling his cock spurt white onto the mattress before his orgasm fully rolls through, leaving him shaking in the aftermath, Castiel’s fingers slowly caressing him from the inside until they’re pulled free.

Before he’s let down, he watches Castiel with hooded eyes as he wipes Dean's face and the mattress clean and sets down one of the softest blankets they own, untying Dean’s legs first to let him stretch. His arms are next, and he’s laid flat while Castiel straddles him, rubbing the feeling back into his aching limbs, heart settling and body softening under Castiel’s touch. “Feels good,” he says after a few minutes, Castiel now between his legs, kneading his thighs until the pain leaves them. Castiel helps him roll onto his side once he’s done and quickly covers them both with another blanket, this one warm and fuzzy, tickling against his skin.

He likes this part—listening to Castiel talk to him, talk him down to where he can sleep, where he can wake up and feel safe and protected. They’re not in either of their beds, he knows; after he nods off, Castiel will carry him to one of their rooms and spoon him there, and won’t leave his side until he’s awake and tells him he’s okay. It’s not easy sometimes, especially after something like this. But Castiel understands, he always does. A warm hand strokes over his face, wiping away the stray tears that always fall once they’re done. Not of sadness, but of relief. “You’re beautiful,” he says against Dean’s lips, tangling their legs together. “Wonderful, perfect. _Mine_.”

“Yours,” Dean whispers back and kisses him, soft, closing his eyes. “Always yours.”

Castiel murmurs a noise and tucks Dean’s head under his chin, arms around his back, enveloping him completely. “Love you,” and it’s barely a breath, but Dean hears it and pulls him in tight, mouthing the words back against his skin. One day, he’ll say it aloud. For now, he lets Castiel know through his touch. And Dean knows that he knows, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! If you're a frequent reader, I was KAGraves! If you're not, hi! But anyways, I'm sorry for the one month hiatus, but I was finishing up my DCBB. Which is now done and off to my lovely betas, so you'll have that to look forward to!
> 
> But anyways, a few things about this. One, I wrote this in two hours and I don't remember my fingers ever stopping. Two, [Holy Trainer's](http://www.holytrainer.com) are stupidly cute and they REALLY shouldn't be. And also, you know me and my kinbaku thing--the pose Dean's tied in is [here](http://41.media.tumblr.com/2f66593f7e89d2dbfc88bb01f70c578c/tumblr_nh5ksiCXqN1qgwomso1_500.jpg). And thanks to the ECKC for betaing, as always!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/loversantiquity).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(art for) Baby Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482074) by [featherfluff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherfluff/pseuds/featherfluff)




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